The Lake, by Mick Shaffer

It’s been two days since this year’s lake encounter came to an end and I can still smell her on my skin. It could be the lake I smell or it could be the shitty little mustache right below my nose that’s resulted from not shaving for 10 days.

The two cuts on my fingers from baiting hooks are only slowly healing. The worms’ fate I shudder to imagine.

I’m still haunted by the one little snake and one little scorpion I saw on our trip. Thank God both sightings occurred on our last day there.

There’s a weird bumpy, red rash on my right foot that I’m currently calling “lake herpes” but am fearing is poison ivy or poison oak, two things I cannot discern nor even recognize because I purposefully limit my visits to … the lake.

I hit the lake once a year. With my wife’s family. We go for a full week. This infrequency is actually elevated from my childhood lake attendance: never.

Yeah, I’m not a lake person. I have several traits necessary for being a lake person – from a small town, love to drink, don’t mind peeing outdoors – but these qualities have yet to overtake the mountain of evidence that suggests I stay as a ground person.

I married into lake people, though. They own a fast boat, a nice Sea-Doo, all the accessories to go with them, along with the effort and desire to stow, transport, and maintain these massive water toys. It’s a testament to how much I love hanging out with these lake people that I do any and all lake activities. What can I say? I’m a goddamned good sport. But my actions don’t always reflect my thoughts about the lake.

THE lake. What does that even mean? Why are we throwing definite articles at “lake?” Like there’s only one lake out there. No one is ever forced to specify.

“Hey, Gene, where ya off to in your sleeveless, ‘2003 Softball Champs’ T-shirt and convenient store hat?”

“Headin’ to THE lake.”

“Oh, THE lake. I’m not gonna ask ya which one – even though there are millions in the world and ten thousand in Minnesota alone – because you said THE lake and not A lake. I’m just gonna end the conversation right here by telling ya to ‘Drink one for me!’”

Maybe it’s because all lakes are the same. They’re filthy. That’s why you can get away with saying, “I’m going to the lake.” As in, “I’m going to the 20,000 acre cesspool where not only fish and animals expel excrement, but so do humans.”

“Oh, THE lake.”

They will test your lateral thinking, these lakes.

Question: When faced with submerging some or all body parts into a lake, you should…

a. jump into the middle of the lake where it is far less safe but the shit particles are more diluted.

b. walk in the security of shallow water where all shit, beer cans, diapers, and sunflower seed bags gather.

c. deliberately knock yourself unconscious with a wake board in order to avoid the situation.

I don’t know about you, but I got to college by mostly guessing “c.”

Actually, I really like being on a (the) lake when the boat is stopped, a beer is in hand, the kids are in the cabin, the sun is out, it’s warm but not too warm (like 84 degrees), the Dramamine I’ve taken for motion sickness has kicked in, and my kind of 90’s grunge rock just happens to be playing on the radio.

Then, I love a lake.

But if it’s too hot or the kids are whining or we’re going too fast or people keep asking me to get them something from the cooler or I’m in the water or I’m fishing or Kenny Chesney is on the radio, then I’m not so much a lake person.

It’s kind of like being a fan of the NBA, but only when they’re shooting fundamentally sound left-handed layups.

To tell you the truth, it’s not the dirtiness that bothers me. After all, I love baths. It’s not even the inconvenience. If God or Mother Nature or Rupert Murdoch – whoever is in charge – could eliminate one thing from lakes, my lake frequenting would increase 412%. If one currently ever-present feature of lakes was removed, I might become King of the Lake People.

But, alas, fish are still in there. F*ck fish!

My third most feared situation in life right behind hanging Christmas decorations and re-lighting a pilot light is the time it takes between me falling off the water skis and the boat finally getting back to me so I can hurriedly jump back on.

I’m sure it’s only 45 seconds or so, but it feels like an hour. I’m just out there bobbing all alone in the middle of a lake with 80 feet of water below me filled with fish capable of – whether they know it or not – taking a toe off, while the boat is off in the distance slowly turning around to either come get me or at least keep me company. It doesn’t look like a speed boat then.

Hell, all a fish would have to do is swim by me – maybe show its backside or graze my leg – and I would be sent into cardiogenic shock. If only they knew that. I hope they don’t. I’ve heard they have sensors.

I mean, have you seen an alligator gar? They grow 8-10 feet long and over 200 pounds. Oh, and they also have gigantic teeth. Plus, they can live for up to two hours outside of water. They’re like a Super-Fish. And they live in lakes. THE lakes. Google it.

(About 212,000 results or 0.21 seconds later)

I wasn’t kidding, was I? Maybe you’ll believe me then about paddlefish. Yes, paddlefish. Paddlefish grow to the size of dolphins. They have big tail fins, cartilage skeletons, and jump out of the water while attacking prey. You know what else has all those characteristics? Sharks.

You know what I saw about two dozen times on my latest excursion to a lake? A paddlefish jumping out of the water.

You know what they looked like? Sharks.

I would rather be dropped in the middle of an ocean than the middle of a lake. I figure oceans already have a bad enough reputation that a Great White swallowing me whole would be too much of a PR hit. Lakes, on the other hand, are overlooked. What’s going to prevent an alligator gar from tearing me to shreds?

Ok, I don’t really believe that last paragraph. Sorry, I get worked up sometimes. I’ll still take a lake, but it’s close.

If only lakes were huge tri-county swimming pools. Then all I’d have to worry about would be the 110-foot deep end and staying off the rope.

But I’m proud of myself for facing my fears each and every July. In fact, I even engaged in trot-lining for the first time ever this particular summer with my two brothers-in-law.

Trot-lin-ing; v. – stringing a line of baited hooks across a body of water to catch fish – but hopefully not snakes, snapping turtles, or beavers – and checking that line every hour all night long in a small, flat-bottom boat that rapidly takes on water due to three grown men easily exceeding the weight limit. Cut off sleeves to make it lighter. Busch Light usually helps.

And, when executed at 3 A.M., trot-lining deftly combines each and every one of my fears: fish, big fish, water, deep water, darkness, the woods, Jason Vorhees, hooks, blood, lightning, strange sounds, bad smells.

I didn’t know whether to pay attention to that spooky tapping sound on the dock, peer up on land into the spooky trees, or look into the water to wait for whatever spooky monster from the deep was hooked on our line. The fear was so paralyzing I could barely hold the flashlight … or my pee in.

In the end, though, I survived. No gar got me this trip. Ten toes until next July.

In fact, I feel like I’m winning, because we ate some of the fish we caught. It was up in the safety of our cabin. So, I hope this news doesn’t get back to the lake.